


Your Boy

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: Bullying, F/M, Happy Ending, Orlo being picked on all the time smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:47:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: After Orlo asked for a dance and became the butt of a joke, the Ladies of the court demand you insult him again. By flirting.
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader, Orlo (The Great TV 2020)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Your Boy

It was an unusually hot day in the palace, the summer heat sticky and oppressive, sapping all the energy out of the gentry who laid around. Everyone was slower, lazier, even the ladies’ restricted schedule was cut back further.

You gave a polite giggle to yet another of Lady Svenska’s jokes as you laid under a marquee on the lawns with the gaggle of ladies, cursing your skirts and gulping down drinks as all of you tried to avoid becoming sweaty messes.

Rarely did high temperatures become an issue in St. Petersburg – rather the opposite in fact. You would mourn this sun, when the winter came, but it did not reduce the complaining of the ladies who shed their wigs and huddled beneath shelter, fanning themselves or being fanned, desperate for cool weather to return.

The heat as oppressive in a way which brought irritability to the forefront of plenty, and you knew part of the reason the women had taken refuge from the palace interior was a spat between George and the men in her life.

She was usually hesitant to gossip, but it had taken one look at her stormy expression to know she had fought with two tragically powerful men.

Her stress added yet another dimension to the strange atmosphere, as the sun passed its zenith in the sky and the light lunch of fingerfoods remained largely unappreciated. It was too stiflingly hot to eat.

“Oh! Here comes your boy,” one of the ladies giggled, and you politely craned your neck to see who had made the comment.

As you rose from the cushions you were reclined upon, you sat to see the other ladies excited at the prospect of literally _anything_ to do.

And there he was indeed.

_Your_ boy.

Count Orlo. The poor sap had asked you for a dance before, his sweet voice shaking as he extended a hand to kiss your knuckles, bowing slightly and rambling that he _would be honoured_.

Lady Svenska had ripped him to shreds.

She had mocked him, her herd of ladies joining in, until the man had left his own birthday celebration. A party thrown for _him,_ and Lady Svenska had bullied him away. And you had stood by and watched, laughed, even.

You had hated yourself more with each quip she threw his way, until the words _unworthy, presumptuous, virgin_ must have been ingrained inside of his eardrums.

You had never felt shame like it, and you cursed yourself for being too weak to stand up against the palace pecking order.

_It would have been social suicide_ , you reminded yourself, as tears welled in the Count’s eyes.

You had gone to apologise later, once you had escaped Lady Svenska’s gleeful bragging about how embarrassed he had been, and you had heard the sobs in his voice as he had told his guards to bar your entry.

Each time you had seen him since, however briefly, you felt shame in the pit of your stomach, acidic and heavy and so ingrained you could never apologise.

In the month since the event, not a day had passed when you didn’t think about it.

Likely, not a day had passed since Lady Svenska had laughed about it.

Your name was intertwined with Orlo’s in the mind of the ladies of the court, just not in the way either yourself nor the Count had wanted.

He was approaching your little desert oasis now, trekking across the lawns in his finery, with the posture of a man on official business.

Your eyes met for just a second, and he looked away coldly. You felt the lump in your throat, solid enough to make you choke.

Lady Svenska’s heel pressed into your foot heavily, making you curse at the pain.

“I have an idea,” she stage-whispered, perking the ears of the whole group.

“Oh?” You replied noncommittally, still watching the Count out of the corner of your eye.

“You should flirt with him.”

A chorus of ‘ _yes’_ es, _‘splendid’s,_ and ‘ _how funny!’_ rose around you, and you found yourself being pushed to the edge of the gathering of reclined noblewomen.

Internally, you cursed, stuck between two equally horrifying outcomes.

To go against the ladies would be insanity, the beginning of a spiral which could see your loss of social status destroy your comfortable life. But to mock Orlo, that was just… _wrong_.

Plainly wrong.

Cruel.

Nonetheless you were pushed forwards, advice and joking suggestions of what you should say

“You do know how to flirt, don’t you?” They called.

You squared your shoulders as you stood up straight, the bureaucrat’s confident pace slowing as he saw you were the only woman waiting to greet him. The others would be feigning disinterest, but listening like spies, you were sure.

Orlo spoke formally, addressing you as if you were a total stranger.

“I need to speak with Georgina, on behalf of his majesty –”

“Orlo!”

“Hello,” he greeted you thickly, undeterred by your interruption. “I need to speak with Georgina Dymova.”

“She is here,” you conceded, stepping forwards, crowding his space to distract him, “you are looking well, Orlo.”

He frowned, taking a step back instinctively, forced into the hot sun to avoid being too close to you.

You hoped you did not smell, self-consciously rubbing the sheen of sweat off your nose and adjusting your humidity-stricken hair.

He did look good, you admitted to yourself. He was wearing one less layer than usual, his loose sleeves open at the wrists to cool him. When he noticed you looking, he quickly buttoned the cuffs again.

“Thank you. I hope you are well yourself,” he said finally, a little less certain of himself.

The poor man must be confused, and you loathed that this encounter would open old wounds for him. George coughed lightly behind you, and you kicked yourself to think of a way to flirt which might entertain the Ladies without being too overt.

“I am better for seeing you,” were the words which left your mouth, uncomfortable and awkward on your ears.

The Count ducked his head, one foot tapping in a strange rhythm.

“That is kind. Now if you do not mind –”

“I am sorry we did not get our dance!” You blurted out suddenly, hearing the stifling of a giggle behind you.

Orlo seemed ignorant of the ladies listening, looking back at you with deep, caring brown eyes. You could see how a man so beautifully emotional suffered in this place, the truth of his soul seemed to be expressed boldly across his face.

You wondered what he saw when he looked back at you.

A rude woman, who only further ruined his reputation and his self-esteem?

You certainly did not hold a high opinion of yourself, after what had happened to him.

“I am too. Now, if you will excuse me…”

“I should not have allowed others to sway my decision. I really would have loved to. I mean, you are a handsome and clever man, truly a rare thing in this day and age –”

You were put off by yet another snort of laughter behind you, and you failed to see what was funny.

The eerie silence of the women cut you off mid-thought, but it didn’t matter. The hope on Orlo’s face was enough, words spilling from him like water from a bursting dam.

“I am so glad you’re giving me another chance! I was truly devastated, the last time. I mean… you are so beautiful, your mind, I mean. Also your face, your body… I am sorry. That wasn’t appropriate. I am making a fool of myself…”

You were entranced by this sweet, eloquent man, made nervous and stuttering by your presence. You had never felt as attracted to someone, as intrigued. You wanted to know him better, you realised. You wanted to show him your true self too.

“I just really like you,” he finished, in a tone which fell lame against your ears, and yet made your heart swell.

“Orlo…” you whispered, any words except his name escaping your mind.

His eyes lit up at the sound of his name on your lips.

The moment was abruptly broken, your feet firmly against the palace lawns as Orlo’s attention was dragged away by mocking laughter. George and Lady Svenska giggled behind you, their hands raised in a faux-polite attempt to cover their mouths. Another lady made a noise of false sympathy for Orlo, and quickly a chorus of laughter and ‘ _aww_ ’s grew.

You had never seen a man as mortified. You feared he might disappear, simply melt on the spot from embarrassment.

It hurt you, you realised suddenly.

Orlo’s own realisation was quick to follow, and you loathed to see his eyes harden, see the painful way he gulped and cleared his throat as his eyes took in the sea of tittering women behind you, now all openly staring at him.

“Ah, I see. You were mocking me.”

You tried to shake your head, but found yourself fixed to the ground, so afraid of both Orlo’s upset and Lady Svenska’s judgement.

“It is a funny joke,” he choked out, shrugging in a way which was perhaps intended to be nonchalant, but only served to show how much he was struggling to control his body after a second round of disappointment and mockery.

“No!” You interrupted, finally reaching out to him, trying to comfort him.

He pulled away from you. You couldn’t blame him.

“George, your husband and the Emperor say they are sorry for their rudeness this morning and demand your service at once. Good day, ladies.”

Orlo turned on his heel, and in your panic, you chased after him.

They would laugh at you. You knew it. But suddenly that meant nothing to you. You loathed the company of those women, got no joy from it. They judgement stifled you from being yourself at every moment. You found yourself dressing to be like them, falsifying your opinions, dumbing yourself down, censoring yourself.

It wouldn’t be like that with Orlo.

And you had let him go.

You ran as fast as you could, no longer mindful of the heat, hitching your skirts up to catch the Count. Ever the gentleman, he slowed a little, glancing to the side as you finally managed to walk astride him. He looked away quickly, but you saw the redness of his eyes, the glossiness of tears.

Your voice caught in your throat as you apologised to him.

“I am so sorry. I truly meant it, but Lady Svenska was… she… she was listening.”

“It is quite alright. I am quite aware that I am not _worthy_ of any sincere fondness from a woman like you.”

You sensed his forced politeness, the way he forced himself to calm and avoid spitting the words.

He was walking too fast. You grabbed him arm, stopping him, and he spun to face you, crying once again.

“Not a single word I said was a lie, Orlo. Damn what Lady Svenska thinks. What they all think. I would love the chance to get to know you better.”

Your words hung in the air as he watched you, trying to decide if you were sincere, and you wanted to grovel, to beg him to understand.

“I am sorry. How about we… go to your rooms. And you let me explain.”

With a sad shake of his head, Orlo looked distantly across the grounds, his eyes drifting away from you as he spoke. _He cannot even look at me_ , you realised desperately.

“I am not sure that’s appropriate, however I appreciate your words. I would like to know you better too, however I fear I am being set up for humiliation once again. Good day.”

“Please? There is no one here, no one watching me, forcing me to say this. And I would truly love to get to know you better.”

He looked at you a little more hopefully, and you sensed you were breaking through the walls he had constructed between you, that perhaps he was judging your apology as truly sincere.

That he was seeing the real you, the person you had hoped he asked to dance on his birthday a month ago.

“And I would love to… get to know you better. I have seen you read things, heard you talk about things, which intrigue me. But I fear I cannot open myself up to mockery, to this cruelty –”

“You will not. I swear it. My intentions are my own, and they are good. I promise you.”

You turned to follow Orlo’s eyeline as he looked across the grounds, seeing the little huddle of women who hid from the hot sun, all standing to watch the pair of you.

You raised a single finger, seeing a ripple of reactions as you flipped off the lot of them. Orlo gasped, clearly concealing some excitement, and you smiled at his response.

His quiet delight turned to horror as Lady Svenska began to march across the lawn.

“I wonder if you might like to come to my rooms after all…” He began, and you nodded furiously as he held out his arm for you.

With your arm in his, the two of you began a quickening pace, and you could hear Orlo’s mischievous giggling as you entered the palace, taking a weaving route to avoid Lady Svenska’s warpath.

When the doors to his room finally swung closed behind you, the guards heels thudding as they hit the carpet, the pair of you stood silent for a moment.

When no hysterical call of Lady Svenska came, the pair of you broke into giggles.

“I cannot believe you did that.”

“I’m sure I will pay,” you admitted, “but it was so satisfying, the punishment will be worth it.”

He said nothing, and you found yourself stood in silence.

“I ought to have done that sooner. Metaphorically, I mean. I really am sorry for ruining your birthday.”

He shrugged, and you felt your heart tug a little against your ribs at his acceptance of it all.

“It was Svenska and George’s faults, not yours.”

“I stood by, I held by tongue, I would have loved to dance with you, truly –”

“We are all just protecting yourselves.”

His rationality was hard to argue with, but you will ached at the thought of it.

“I really never wanted to reject you. I swear,” you promised, and Orlo gave a light laugh.

“You have made that clear, and I thank you for it.”

“Ask me again,” you demanded.

Orlo looked at you with a furrowed brow, confused.

“I don’t understand.”

“Ask me for a dance.”

He looked around, as though expecting to be somehow transported, or for something to have changed in the organised chaos of his room.

“There is no music,” he told you apologetically.

It was your turn to shrug, though with a happier expression on your face.

“That does not bother me. There is… a type of dancing we can do without music,” you winked to him for good measure, and he was truly flustered in a way you could not have achieved outside, flirting with him on the lawns for others’ amusement.

Orlo held his hand out to you, and you smiled as you waited for him to speak.

“I am not well practiced in it, however… may I ask you to dance?”

Without a second thought you took his hand, feeling it was a little sweaty against your own. Nerves. You would both be grateful to get out of your clothes, for more reasons than just the heat.

“Orlo, it would be my true pleasure.”

He beamed, and you smiled back like a fool, as the pair of you took in the moment. Outside, there was a bang on the door, followed by a gruff warning from the guards. Svenska’s voice carried through the thick panel of the door, and you smiled to Orlo.

He reached out to stop you, but it was too late, as you called back: “We are rather busy. Apologies!”

“That was ill-advised,” Orlo warned, the tinge to true concern for you in his voice giving you yet another swell of warmness in your chest for this man.

“Mhm.”

With that, you kissed him.


End file.
